14:22

Working in home office.  Kind of.  Not in a sales mood, and the mood I’m in is with cannons pointed outward.  Listening to LoFi in hopes it calms me but the writer feels himself coming undone.  Like a monster loosely assembled, constructed, or even thought out.

All the rah-rah shit from the conference yesterday worn off.  And I’m here frustrated, again.  With prospecting and how it comes so easy to some.  I’m struggling, and now freewriting and nothing I’ll put on blog. When I hit a certain curve and color maybe I will but I need these paragraphs for me.

Why not have another…..  Just being honest.  I need it, after the driving yesterday in that fucking atmospheric river or whatever they called it on the news showing over and over the big stretch of clouds or front “slamming into California” as they said.  Then the…..

No matter.  Here I am.  Wondering how I am here, in this position with this position and job and stress to sell.

That’s what I need to write about and only that – where I am and what I’m doing and what I’d rather not be doing.  Journal page for day filled.

I need a new Beat.  That’s certain.  More than certain.  Some people are just wired differently as my dad has always told me.  Why do I let it under any layer of skin.  Not looking anywhere for answers but right here.

In this room, in this condo which I need write in more.  Feel like taking a walk around the Green but I don’t have time.  Write, write till you find something I say to myself.

This track has me a little more optimistic and colorful.  Not listening to anyone or anything but my own inner narrator.  Like Kerouac narrating to himself in Sur, watching people move and listening to their speak in bars and the cabin, by the ocean, wherever.

New story.  A new one, what I need.  As in, seriously, immediately.

Starting with when I wake up.  Change time to 05:00.  Couldn’t this morning, but tomorrow no option.  No backup so just me and the kids for pickup tomorrow, drop-offs and then another couple pickups.

How can I be in sales with a schedule like this?  Seems like the Story is already in a fucked frame.  Oh well… what can I control?  Not going to fucking say “my activity” like they did over and over and more fucking over at the thing yesterday.  But more than any deliverable, my attitude.

How I see and translate what I see.  There’s a dozen other things I could be doing right now but I’m writing.  Just that… typing here in the loft, or first floor focus room.  Rain gone, and the sky unobstructed gives my more opened way more openness.

Imagine working and not hating it.  Crazy concept, I know.  Story of my life I think. Work.  And what I’ve done, what I’ve tried, and now how I’m in a panic.  “Maybe I should try construction… or law, be a paralegal or some shit…. How about retail?”  

WHAT.THE.FUCK.ARE.YOU.TALKING.ABOUT.